Evolution
by Zanni-Smile
Summary: A mistake. A regret. A crossroads. An attempt at a natural progression. *Jay/Charles, strays from canon*
1. So Funny You Forget To—

Disclaimer: I do not own Honeydew Syndrome, one of the best webcomics ever produced. I wish I were that skilled.

Author's Note: Written for Dualism, an author who is amazing to the infinite degree.

* * *

So Funny You Forget To—

So what if it's one in the morning and you've only just begun the project? Those hours spent on the internet messaging about unicorns and male Japanese cheerleaders were worth it, even if you don't remember how you got on to that in the first place. Blame it on Jay, since it was his fault you aren't working in person (his fault for the car-squirrel-crash accident), and his fault for suggesting cooperation over IM, and his fault for getting you distracted.

He's getting you distracted a lot lately, which isn't so _so_ bad. It's only been for a little while, maybe a few little months, but you don't bother counting because you're not some lovesick girl in heat. (Josh, you laugh to yourself, while secretly vowing to key his car if he messes with May too much.)

So at least you and Jay have finally started work, real work, not "researching the Loch Ness monster because hey, Nessie's a sea creature" for marine biology work.

It's two before you decide to stop, and in that time the two of you have compiled one paragraph, but it's a main body paragraph, which is not horrible progress. Of course, most of the time was spent on tangents and Jay sending you music from bands you've never heard of, bands that Jay'll forget in a day or two because by then they're way too old. It's times like this you wonder, listening to whatever Ima Robot song he just sent you, whether you're not just a little too sick in the head—whichever one—as you slip your hand into your boxers and jerk yourself off while you're still having a perfectly civil conversation across the glowing screen.

He can't see you tighten fingers around your throbbing cock, can't see you thrusting into your fist that you envision his mouth replacing. It's all in the hair, really, all in those black bangs that you'd love to see bobbing up and down as he sucks you off. Twirl your fingers in it, get a grip, force him down until he can barely take you any further, force every drop of come down his throat.

The best, most disgusting thing about instant messages is that it is an isolated contact. Jay cannot see you, cannot hear you moaning to his synth pop, cannot feel the hot wetness against one of your hands. It's like a game, all this time you've been keeping an intelligent (for all its stupidity) conversation, every letter properly capitalized and every period in place. One hand's free to type, after all, and he has no idea in his pretty styled head that you've done this almost every time you're "alone" together.

Although, you'd love to do it right in front of him, just to see the shock. He's always been friendly, but never been close, and you just know that if you actually made a move he'd probably avoid you altogether, project or no. That's the problem, that for all his little trends, making out with guys doesn't seem to be on the list, or if it is, then something about you just isn't right.

You laugh as he signs off, left with a cold screen and a cooling wetness against your legs. It's so funny it's sad: you can get under anyone's skin but his, let alone get under his clothes. (And that's a lie. You know you get under his skin. It's just not the way you want to.)

That's the only reason you're interested. Nothing more. You just want to get him hot and bothered and frustrated and leave him frustrated. You just want to play a little, because he's a tough playmate.

The next time you meet, it's in person, so you can't play out your favorite twisted fantasy, but it's not so bad watching him in the flesh. You finish your essay this time, finally, even if it took a freakish number of hours, two bags of chips, five sodas and about four prank calls to Metis for kicks. (Jay argues it's five, but since May hung up immediately on the fifth call, you're still saying it doesn't count.)

So it's whatever-o'clock in the morning and you don't feel like driving home (cops don't have anything else to do, would probably stop you anyway). Whether he likes it or not you're staying over. He doesn't seem to care either way.

Doesn't seem to care. That's the problem. You need to annoy the hell out of him, freak him out, sarcasm him out, something. Because that's what you do, what you're here for, to be utterly acerbic and delightfully derisive.

So you're both pretty wiped, even after the caffeine, and you just bashed his face with a pillow. Pillows are never to be underestimated, because like marshmallows, if thrown with enough force, they can really hurt. And for some reason, you want him to have some piece of pain.

He hits back, not so surprising, but you are surprised when you both slam into the floor (you fell, pulled him down with you). Carpet has no right to be that hard, but then again, neither do pillows and you've smacked each other up pretty well, feathers flying.

It's the light of the neon green lava lamp (only in Jay's room, only with Jay's style sense, Jay with the neon green hot pants that you've seen hidden in the closet) that makes the black stand out against the blond that makes you finally lose it.

Maybe he is worth it, because that shampoo apparently does do wonders for his hair as you grip strands corroded by dye chemicals but so soft, the contrast to what your doing with your mouth. It's the shock, probably, that his mouth is open and you're not so much kissing as you are raping him with your tongue, but you don't think it would have as much kick without a little pain and—

Your shirt's somewhere in the corner while Jay is still clothed and somewhere along the line he started kissing back when he wasn't supposed to. You're not really doing things for shock value now, since he's obviously not too shocked by this. There's no shock at all, just a hot tongue sliding over your chest and somewhere, in that mechanical part of your brain that you (so methodical, so calculating) can never turn off, somewhere, you think, He's probably tracing that stupid unicorn song. (Him biting your nipple? A period, probably, and you'd laugh at it all if he hadn't started kissing you again, and you're both using _skill_ this time, and it's good enough to go to hell for.)

Playing with yourself in front of a computer screen is nothing compared to actually seeing that mouth close around you, those strips of black among the blond between your legs, and nothing, nothing, is like that wet tight heat around your shaft and you will never see him eat a popsicle the same way again.

Those fingers, slipping inside and Jay really needs to stop protesting his girly taste in toiletries, because even if he denies being picky about the shampoo, you smell that cucumber melon lotion. But he could be throwing daisies on you for all you care right now, as long as those slick fingers don't stop stretching, don't stop pressing that spot that makes you grind against him and go blind in a field of white hot light.

And finally, he enters, too quick, but the pain doubles the pleasure, triples it, makes you moan. You're both still on the floor, but your arms are gripping the bed sheets, bodies twisted into each other and you don't want it any other way. He reaches a hand down, cocktease, barely running his fingers over your dick when all you want him to do is jerk you off while he jerks against your hips. And even though you're not that vocal, he finds such a good angle that you actually moan out (a thousand flashes of cheesy porno in your head), and not just moan out, but moan his name.

The mouth that's been bruising you neck stills. A strand of black over your shoulder (you like it there, that single strand against your skin) disappears as Jay draws his head back, moves his palm off your hip, pulls himself out of you completely so you can't even feel a ghost of him against you. In all the years since you've hit puberty, you've never felt this level of frustration, of emptiness, of total defeat as he grabs the pants hanging off the bedpost. He says he's sorry, and he's going for a drive, as if it was his fault in the first place (damn him, damn him, damn him, yes it's his fault), and as if his car isn't in the shop anyway (goddamn squirrels, goddamn Jay, goddamn why can't he even look you in the eye?).

That open door and empty silence, you fill them with your laughter.

And that's really it, isn't it, the real reason you're interested. You're selfish, you'll admit it. All this time, you haven't wanted to just get under his skin; you've wanted to stay there. And even as that open door mocks you, you don't waste a perfect drop of irony. Because the next time you see him, it will be like nothing has happened, and nothing the next time, and nothing the next, and for once, you don't push things. And Jay is his normal stand-offish self around you, and you don't ever say anything about this incident to May.

(What's the point, because everyday it's more and more like it never happened, and you're the only one remembering it, might as well have been another fantasy played out before a computer screen.)

Jay's under your skin, and it's so funny you forget to laugh.


	2. If Only Ten Feet, Ten Minutes Sooner

Disclaimer: I do not own Honeydew Syndrome, one of the best webcomics ever produced. I wish I were that skilled.

* * *

If Only Ten Feet, Ten Minutes Sooner

It's not like you're ashamed—of him. Of yourself? You're not sure. There's no logical reason why. Unless you start journeying to the Land of Drama, making numerous pit stops at the Houses of Angst, until you reach your destination of Confused Sexuality. You're pretty sure one of those is a band, and that you have one of their singles.

The stairs, have they always been this loud? Or are they only loud compared to the hushed whispers which have just been in your ears?

The night is cold, and you leave the door unlocked, and you hope no thieves choose the minutes while you walk away to rob your house.

You wander around the block, counting your steps upon the sidewalk, and wonder if one of the neighbors might see you and think you're a vandal yourself. You had the sanity to wear pants, but you're still shirtless, and your hair is in need of a comb. Heck, your sister might wake up, look out her window, see you going back and forth on the street and bar the house herself. Probably think the dye's soaked into your brain. It's not the dye, it's just stupidity.

The window of your bedroom softly stares at you with its glow. Your throat tightens as you think you see a shadow at the window, a silhouette of a blond who's probably going to punch your lights out as soon as you go back. No, that would be far too easy. You clamp a hand to your ear, realizing he'll probably rip out your piercings. A groan escapes your throat. You saw Charles when he thought Josh had hit May again. Scary Charles. Angry Charles. Scary angry Charles who is probably ready to disembowel you with the barrettes in his hair (barrettes! And he makes fun of your shampoo? Please).

You end up lying down on your front porch, which is about as comfortable as the carpet in your room. It's cool, and you can feel your skin losing heat. The streetlight is bothering your eyes, because what you really want is a nice, dark hole to crawl into. Journey starts playing in your head, and you hum.

There's a feather sticking in your hair from the pillows. Charles knows how to hit.

The ache is still in the pit of your stomach, spreading up and down and throughout. It's in your hands, your fingers. You want to be back in the room, grasping at warm skin, but instead, your palms lie flat. You want to feel that mouth over yours, sweet in defiance of its usual acidity.

Dissatisfaction throbs through you. It's quiet. It's dead. It's in the middle of the night outside on your front porch when you could have been inside your room with a warm and willing body arching under you and into you and twisting around you, and you ache.

You want to blame him. He pulled you to the floor, he kissed you, he started it.

You can't blame him. You took it further, you kissed him back, you wanted it. Your fingers are still shaking with the memory of unzipping his pants and holding his thighs. You wanted him in your mouth, feeling him tremble under your tongue, tasting salt and skin, seeing those eyes slip shut, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed air but didn't breathe.

Tightening around you, pushing back every time you thrust into his ass, that neck straining under your tongue and those lips, forming your name.

You will not say pleasure, because that would be an understatement, and what happened you cannot understate.

Yet here you are, lying on your front porch, while he is not far away above you. And you wonder why you are not up there with him.

You head back inside, finally, but stop at the stairs, the suddenly insurmountable mountain. You walk in your dark living room and fall onto the couch, afraid the world will break if you walk up the stairs. They creak if so much as a spider hits them. The last step barely groans, but the top creaks like it dying—like its creaking right now.

Charles goes slowly, and every thud of his foot kicks you in your stomach. He does not look down or to his side. He definitely does not look at you. He looks straight ahead, posture stiff, eyes unblinking. You can tell: he does not know you are barely ten feet away, in the dark, watching him.

These few seconds are quickly memorized: his back lit by the soft light of your room flowing down the stairs, his fists clenched, his mouth twisted into a desolate smile so different from his inebriating mutterings of what was minutes ago. Not even an hour, just minutes, and already lost.

If there's a mark upon his neck, you cannot see it. You want a mark to be there, because if it is, maybe you'll have to admit to this, and maybe you can let yourself continue. But the room is dark, his coat collar would hide it regardless of whether there even is one, and you are motionless on the couch, afraid you'll be revealed.

You're afraid, and you do not stop him as he opens the door and leans in the doorway, sucking in air. You wonder if right now, if you crossed your arms across his chest, if you could stop that quiet, somehow self-deprecating laughter. He lingers, lingers, lingers, turns away. You stand up by the time the door slams. You are outside by the time he's in his car and driving away. If he can see you now, he still does not acknowledge you.

Charles has not hit you, but he is hurting you. You do not blame him, because you realize all it would have taken to stop him is a ten-foot walk just a few seconds quicker. He was not scary or angry: he was hurt. He is gone.

Back in your room, glowing green from the lava lamp and blue from the neon signs, you search for the pack of cigarettes under your mattress and the lighter in your dresser. You're smart enough to head outside so no one—your sister—will make a big deal about smelling smoke in your room. The weight of a thousand steps presses down on you, all steps you have taken in what is still not an hour but getting there.

The cigarette feels so natural between your fingers, calming you through its familiar smoke. Until you realize the tobacco has replaced the memory of Charles' lips, and is washing away a sweetness you may never taste again. You crush it against a wooden rail, and vow to stop smoking.


	3. Between Here and There

Disclaimer: I do not own Honeydew Syndrome, one of the best webcomics ever produced. I wish I were that skilled.

Author's note: Once again, dedicated to the inestimable Dualism. She graciously lent me her plot bunny. I hope this does a bit of justice to it.

* * *

Between Here and There

Everyone, everything, is wasted. Sometimes, it pays to be the designated driver because you'll have a clear memory of the chess club president using the basketball team's point guard as her own personal shot glass. Pouring salt on his nipples for a tequila slammer? Classy. To think, you might have missed this glorious representation of the dredges of teenage culture had Metis not forced you to drive him and Charles. Which was really sort of awkward, if you think about it, since you had to pick Charles up first and then drive ten minutes (in awkward conversation, which is worse than awkward silence) until you reached Metis' house. Yeah. Awkward. But you're not thinking about it.

The dynamic duo (you hum the Batman theme) is alone somewhere. You're not thinking about Charles, which is easier when you're not around Charles. You love Metis to death, but the boy is being somber. You won't waste your social-butterfly networking skills. Meh. They can occupy each other. You have drama kids to chat up and art dandies to play pin the tail on the plasma screen with.

It's so much more fun to watch the destruction of expensive items when you don't own them.

You're sort of surprised that Metis approaches you by himself. Usually, he'd make Charles (not thinking about him) come along.

"Let's go," he says, grabbing your shoulder.

"Chill, man, Patricia Lucas is about to take a spoon and—"

"Come on, Jay, I'm bored. Let's go," May says again. And you would normally argue with him and tease him about his emo-ness, but he's not whiny-upset like usual. At any rate, he doesn't look bored. Just… frustrated.

"Fine, fine, but I swear, you owe me one act of indecency," you laugh. May rolls his eyes. He keeps rolling them as you stop about ten times before you reach the door to tell someone that you're leaving and to text you the pictures of Patricia. You vaguely lament walking away from the shouts and bad techno echoing through drunken hallways. Que sera sera. Whatever will be will be on youtube the next day anyway.

"Don't we need to get Charles?" you ask.

Metis pushes you forward, pointing to your car. The car with its lights on. And its engine running. And its blond sitting in the back. How the hell did Charles know where your extra key was hidden? He's spread all the way across the seat, back against the right-side door and legs open. And you'd still rather not think about Charles. Because you'd rather not crash on the way home because you're distracted thinking about how his shirt's pushed up a little and his hand is across his stomach and how you know just how he'd look without the shirt and—

"To make the vroom-vroom machine go, you press down on the pedal and move the wheel," Charles says, kicking your seat.

Putting on a seatbelt hasn't taken this long since you were seven. But you finally click it and press the pedal that makes the vroom-vroom machine go. You keep moving your mirror. You need to see behind you, but some piece of Charles fills every angle. There. Charles foot. Not distracting. Except for how he wiggles his toes and his socks and that fact that it's attached to a leg leading up to—

"Why'd we leave so early anyway?" you ask. Metis grunts. "Oh come on, just because you don't know how to enjoy yourself, May."

Metis actually answers, but you can't hear it over Charles' laughter. It's not like you can wax poetic about it, it's just his voicing changing pitch at regular intervals. But it sounds real, and it's the first time you've heard it like that since… since, and it replaces the last time you heard him laughing while streetlight washed over him.

"I'd say we enjoyed ourselves until Josh threw me into a wall. The bitch," Charles adds.

It's lucky you're at a red light anyway, because it gives you an excuse to have slammed the breaks on. You're gaping like a fish and you know it, and for the first time that night you turn around and look in the vicinity of Charles' face. But you still can't look him in the eye. It's lucky his eyes are closed, so he can't see through you.

"What," and here, you press on the gas, "did you possibly do for him to do that?"

"Because he's—" and Metis snarls a few choice words, all of which are garbled, and none of which answer your question. You make out the word _Josh._ You make out the words _make out._ And you even catch the exact phrase "sucker-punching son of a whelk." You're confused until Charles explains.

"Metis is good at initiating Josh's anger. His candid display of hormones and homosexuality was too much for the poor boy to bear. By which I mean Josh is an equally hormonal but more violent bitch."

Ah, that sort of makes sense. Josh, as Charles once illuminated for you, is dealing with latent desires to "take Metis on the ten yard line," ew, and likes to take out his anger on people rather than pillows. But one thing is out of place.

"Then why'd he throw you against a wall and not Metis?"

The drive to May's house is painfully short, especially because you know it will take so much longer to drop off Charles. And even though it's not the best conversation you've ever had at the moment, since Metis is there, you can pretend that nothing with Charles ever happened. He obviously doesn't care about it anymore (it never happened, a little voice says), and you don't care either as long you aren't alone with him.

May unbuckles his seatbelt. He looks back at Charles, who, even though his eyes are closed, waves Metis off with a lazy hand.

"I'll catch him up. Night, May. Tomorrow's Sunday, so I expect you to bring the lunch _to_ me. And you still kiss like a whelk."

And you thought the drive to _get_ to the party was uncomfortable.

The slamming of a door and the empty silence following are familiar, but Charles is still here this time. He doesn't bother with moving to the front. He looks comfortable lying in the back. Your car has good upholstery.

After considering a variety of half-formed questions, you finally say "Kiss?" and wince at how your voice has just had a broken flashback to puberty.

"Yeah. May asked; we negotiated; he owed me two and a half weeks of lunch. Since Josh overreacted, Metis owes me a little extra. He better not think I'll be satisfied with Mickey D's, either. He'd better go to… Are you driving me home, or am I spending the night with May?"

Your tires screech across the empty street. (Because, another little voice cackles, because you don't want Charles and Metis to spend the night. Together.) Charles has obviously forgotten everything, that damn casual voice like he's talking about tennis shoes.

"What, don't tell me you're into May, too?" Charles asks from the backseat. "I get the feeling Josh doesn't like competition. But don't worry, May's skills aren't up to mine anyway. I had to let him down."

And if you're driving ten or fifteen miles over the speed limit, it's not like there are any other cars around and no one stops you. Charles doesn't say anything else, and suddenly, you've taken a left when you needed to take a right and you're driving to nowhere at no time at night.

It's been almost an hour. You're not even in the city anymore, but you're not in the wilderness. The blurring orange streetlight still reaches you. Charles is either asleep or doesn't care that you're sort of kidnapping him. He's been silent, and he's moved his foot, so it's easier to pretend he's not there.

You pull over on the side of the road, which isn't so much a road as a Picasso of gravel with the occasional pavement. The windows have been rolled down; your arm still burns from hanging outside the car door with the wind sweeping across it. You lick your bottom lip and wonder when you bit into it. The steering wheel thuds as you beat your head against it once, twice, thrice.

Almost. You could almost forget the object of your angst was sitting right behind you, but not now when shudders are spreading into your back where his hand touches.

"Hey, this is all," he says, sending shards of ice into your spinal cord, "your fault. It's not even like May and I would ever even go out, but if you like him don't get angry just for this."

You flinch away from his hand and grip the steering wheel. He has to know what he's been saying. He's been playing your heartstrings on a cheese grater. "It's not about Metis, you should know damn well it's not Metis, know I am not into him. Fuck, you know—"

"What do I know, huh? What do I fucking know?"

His words are quiet, tired, frighteningly lost. He's not crying, but his eyes are red. He looks young. Like he's breakable. Completely unlike Charles. The look on his face (still not looking him in the eye, watching through your rear-view mirror) is hopeless. As much as you hate to admit it, he has every right to look that way.

He can't know anything because you haven't spoken for weeks. Sure, you've talked, but you have not spoken. Actions had to replace your words; your actions have been to leave him alone in your room and pretend like nothing ever happened. Why shouldn't he wonder if you have a thing for May? You've shown well enough that if you feel anything for him—and you freeze, because you've gotten good at putting what _you did_ out of your brain and twisting it into something that was somehow his fault.

You left him during sex. Your eyes close and you try to breathe, which is more than you feel up to. You left him alone in the middle of having sex in your room and let him leave when you were steps away and ignored him as best you could for days after: these were the actions which replaced your voice. This is the first time you admit it to yourself, and the first time you realize that as hurt as he seemed that night, time has definitely not been helping.

It's another slamming door that jolts you back to the present. Charles apparently doesn't care that you're in the void after city but before country, and every step he takes is a repeat of your mistake. This time, you're not hiding.

"Charles," you say to the night and to his back. If this were a movie, then he would look back and go running into your arms and some other feel-good fake shit would happen. He does not look back, because this is not a movie, but god it would be so much easier if it were.

The first step is the hardest. The gravel rustles under your feet. The second step is easier, but not as easy as the third, because you're running and velocity and physics and when you finally slam into him you're lucky you both don't fall and scrape your faces on the road.

When tugging on his arm doesn't make him move, you begin to remember that, oh yeah, you and he are about the same size. Maybe tackling the object of your affection, frustration, and dramatization was not the best way to start making up. Still. It's a start.

It's late at night and a little chilly and you're in the middle of neither here nor there as you say what you most definitely needed to say weeks ago and every day since. Charles is back to his schooled expression where you can't tell if he wants to tear your face off or solve complex chemical equations. You're hoping it's not either of those things as you move your hands to hold his arms.

"I'm sorry."

Life not being a movie, Charles does not swoon.

"Your point?" he asks, and you struggle to form an answer.

Charles smirks as he pushes you into the ditch on the side of the road. (A shame the pants you have on are white and probably grass-stained now, but that's far from the worst thing to happen tonight.) Footsteps crunching gravel is shattering rejection, until you realize he's headed back to the car. You raise yourself off the dewy grass and follow. You're amazed to realize, as he leans, arms crossed, near the backseat door, how there is silence between you, and it is not crushing your lungs this time.

He climbs into the backseat once more. You seat in the front, fingers running along the key but not starting the ignition. You unlock the doors, get out, and climb into the back. He shifts to the other side, giving you (or himself) space. You hold your eyes to his for what feels like the first time in forever. "My point," you tell him, finally, "is that I'm sorry. I'll do what I can to make up for it."

He's scowling and leaning away from you but he does not stop you from moving forward. It's somehow comforting to see him looking properly pissed at you, but what stays foremost in your mind is how his eyes are angry but mostly _hurt_. You'll do what you can to fix it.

Sex does not fix everything. It rarely fixes anything. It's what got you in trouble in the first place. But he's not pushing you back, and you want to replace what you did wrong, and if he'll let you do that now, then you want it now.

He turns his head when you try to kiss his mouth, but does not stop your hands (one under his shirt, one between his pants and boxers, who says men can't multitask?). You ignore the fact that there's practically no space and that just because no one's driven down this way you could still get caught and that in practical terms, undressing either him or yourself completely is not practical for sex in your car.

You finally get his shirt off (freaking long sleeves) and you're torn between looking at his chest and examining the bruise on his left shoulder. You wonder how it got there until you remember Josh who you don't like right now except for realizing that in some freakish way he's the reason you are here, right now, in the backseat of your car with Charles under you and not forgiven but closer to getting there. And Josh has flown out of your mind to some tiny island in the Bahamas and Metis can be his servant boy for all you care (because you don't) because Charles is under you.

Stripping in the car is a task in itself. Stripping in the car with one person on top of another is near-impossible, but you manage to remove your clothes. Even your shoes and socks. Sock-sex is not as sexy to you, and you can drive barefoot if you have to anyway. You ignore the pain in your elbow from smacking it against the rear windshield, and bless the fact that you really do have comfortable upholstery.

Charles' face stays unreadable, and it makes your fingers shake. He still might be waiting to tear your face off. (And you immediately strike that from your mind, even if it very well may be true. Because you're owning up to the fact that you _hurt_ him, and you'll try to fix it.)

Breathe, breathe, breathe as you try not to hyperventilate. Second chances don't come often. Breathe once more, and your mouth is suddenly centered on his stomach. He squirms as you suck hard, dipping your tongue into his belly button. You lick a path across his chest, stopping to lave each nipple until it's a dark pebble against his skin. His breath shudders in time to your tongue, quiet and dissonant beauty.

You nip along his collarbone, then his neck, latching on with such force that he finally makes a noise. This time, you make sure there's a mark against his neck. A bruise blossoms near his throat, offsetting the one on his shoulder. You've been grinding into him this entire time, the friction of your erections curling your insides, and it's so strong that you almost need to stop, but it's so strong that you can't.

You draw back, take him in, revel in his flushed face and the flush across his penis and the lack of air in both your lungs. His eyes are clouded, and although some of it might be pain or anger, some of it is definitely satisfaction.

Whatever he's feeling, his body's not opposed to sex right now.

If you had more time—and space—you would play with him, touch or mark or kiss every spot on his body. (And you think of a few more things, things involving Charles' full cooperation and possibly a safeword.) But now, you focus on the skin under your fingertips, and thank whatever deity is presiding over sex (you would hope for a lube-fairy) that you had lotion in the car. You can save the chocolate-flavored lube for the nights you're not having unplanned car sex. God, you hope to have those other nights, preferably with Charles squirming at the intrusion of your fingers.

For the first time since you started undressing him, he moves his hands. He tugs your wrist and your fingers away from stretching him. At first you think it's a rejection, but then he raises his hips and moves your hands to his ass. His legs are drawn to his chest. His eyes are closed and his mouth is open and one sweat-flattened strand of hair sticks stubbornly across his nose.

If it's not the most beautiful sight you've ever seen, may lightning strike both you and your illegal song downloads dead.

You push into him and wonder how you ever could have pulled away before. His ass tightens around your cock, and you barely have enough control not to come right then. You'll save leisure for when you've finally made everything up to him; for now, all you can do is thrust into him and hope you don't die from heatstroke and that your thighs can be un-melded from the leather seats.

Once more, you lower your mouth to his, and this time he doesn't move away. His lips are warm and rough but not quite chapped, and the last thing you do is breathe, "I'm so sorr—" before Charles grabs your bangs and moves his tongue into your mouth. He drags one of your hands to his member and you have just enough cohesion to pull and squeeze and tease the slit at the head before both of you fall into spasms. And he says one word. And it's your name. And you think you might actually be dying.

You lazily move your mouth against his, brushing lips, having a tired war with your tongues. His fingers are threading through your hair, and you never realized you were so like a cat because you want him to keep petting. You like looking at your hair spread across his skin. You like how his eyes are not hurt, just hazy in the afterglow.

It's only a few minutes before the slight air chill hits you. Charles sobers some and pushes you off so each of you can re-pants yourselves. He rubs at his back; you run your fingers across his skin. There's an indentation of what might be the door handle.

He smiles, barely, and chuckles, pleasantly. His eyes are guarded, but not upset.

"If you really want to make it up to me, buy me breakfast," he says, exiting the backseat to take shotgun.

It's early morning by now and no cars are on the road and you might actually have gotten a little lost. You start the car, hoping there's an all-night diner and directions somewhere. Charles checks your phone because you hope someone sent you good pictures of Patricia. His hand rests on your thigh, and you're starting to feel forgiven.


	4. Evolution

Disclaimer: I do not own Honeydew Syndrome. I do not have those kinds of skills.

Author's Note: I actually like lime fishnets. Fishnets in general are sort of spiff.

* * *

Evolution

It's a fine line between amiable torment and full-blown torture. You're pretty sure the line's exact location is the inner seam of Jay's jeans. You lean towards him on the pretense of checking his essay-which you are. A misplaced modifier there, an incorrect tense here, and "That's _a_ffect, not _e_ffect. Are you sure you're in the right English class?"

Jay sticks his tongue at you for the comment. Another slash of the pen and you've marked another spelling error. Jay's on the edge of frustration, but it's not all for the essay. It's for your nails grazing the inside of his thigh, the barest of pressure to be felt through the denim. If you pressed any harder, sped up the movement, it might cause a wardrobe malfunction in Jay's already too-tight pants. Someone could notice. You wouldn't want that. It's driving the boy some sort of crazy, and you bask in it.

You're in the middle of the cafeteria. Metis is sitting across from you blowing bubbles in his chocolate milk. You and Jay have been more than friends for more than a month, and even your best friend doesn't know. Jay doesn't press the issue, and you both kind of like how it is anyway. There's something exhilarating about sneaking around. The thrill of not getting caught and all that jazz.

Beyond that, there's something exhilarating knowing that the relationship you have-whatever insignificant term you attach to it-is yours and his and no one else has a piece of it. Selfish, and it suits you.

Jay calls you a sadist. He says this as he takes another bite out of your ice cream. Normally, you'd ward him off your food. The peanut butter fudge cone isn't even important: it's the principle of the thing. Jay threatens to buy and eat a popsicle. You raise your eyebrow, give that little curl of the lip.

Jay grins. "Trust me. It's not your kind of threat-but it's my kind."

You can't help your amusement when another two bites in, he gets brain freeze. He assures you it's not that funny.

"Yes, it is."

It's more for your own satisfaction that you massage circles into his temple. You like his shampoo. Hair fetishes never hurt anyone. Unlike ice cream. He glares but presses closer.

"Seriously. Sadist. Schadenfreude."

"I'm surprised you know that word."

This is the first time Jay's been to your house. It's an average home on the edge of suburbia. Jay stares suspiciously at the lawn gnomes. Your dad collects them.

Jay had expected your parents to be, as he put it, "a dash of cracking kneecaps with baseball bats piled on a heap of sarcasm." Your dad is a gardening-addicted dentist and your mom is a nurse with a penchant for smiley face scrubs.

Just to get Jay to stop gaping, you assure him your dad sabotages other people's gardens in time for the annual competition, and that your mom once made a meter maid cry. You actually don't want to go into that.

Your mom takes a moment to fuss over you bringing someone home that's not Metis. Once her inspection is over, you shove Jay down the hall to your room and lock the door. Standard procedure since you learned "privacy" and "teenager" could go unquestioned in the same sentence. At the moment, you're not even planning to do anything, but it warms your (malevolent) heart to see Jay almost nervous.

"What, not evil lair enough for you?" you ask. You like your mattress; it doesn't creak when you sit on it. _Fragile Things_ is put onto the shelf. An English worksheet marks your place midway through _The Monarch of the Glen_. If it were Metis in your room, you'd go ahead and read. For the moment, you let Jay try to prove himself more interesting than Shadow.

He mostly stares at every innocuous object, like he's visiting a foreign country, or a theme park.

Come to Charles World. Bring your kids and ride the country's most humiliation-inducing roller coaster at half price.

He sits beside you, weight dipping the mattress but not shifting you. Mostly, he looks at your crammed bookshelf.

"That's one of my favorites," he says. He's pointing to _Good Omens_. Damn. "But I thought _American Gods_ was better." Yes. Much better. He pulls out your first volume of _The Absolute Sandman_.

You're being hypocritical for all the times you've ridiculed Metis about his Marvel obsessions, since you and Jay get into a deep and philosophical discussion on the forms of Desire, whom you agree is the best of the Endless. Which is probably just so you have a convenient segue into something involving a lot less talking, just as much mouth, and a reason to be glad your mattress doesn't squeak.

He doesn't really mind that you really hate the scene kids. As in, really hate them. Loathe, even, in the case of that one diminutive boy with blue hair. Blue-hair boy, Jay informs you, still has a morbid green bean phobia-a phobia you are proudly responsible for.

See, with some people ("couple" is too sentimental a word), one person hating the other's friends would be a cause of confrontation.

"So, all of them?"

"No, there are a few," you say. "Kristin's okay. She did pretty well in the play, considering everyone else forgot their lines. Yeah. That's it. I hate the scene kids. Except Kristin."

"And me," he tells you. You don't give any more affirmation than a shrug. His fingers have been threaded through yours for the past five minutes. His eyes look more gray than blue in this light. "So I'm guessing you don't want to go to the movie with us?"

"Tempting, but I have squirrels in the park to set on fire."

"You're kidding?" The cute (fine, you'll admit that word) thing is, you're pretty sure he still can't tell when you're serious or not.

"No, Jay, I'm an arsonist wanted in five states, including Alaska. It's pretty damn hard to light snow, but once you get enough kerosene anything burns." You could probably make millions with that poker face.

Jay pulls up your hand and his, still together, and looks at them. "Dave doesn't know it was you who put the plastic spider in the green beans. Want to meet us for lunch later?"

You smile.

Jay takes it upon himself to barge into your room on an otherwise peaceful Sunday afternoon. You briefly wonder if your pants are secretly labeled "stripper" as he throws two fives and a ten into your lap. Ah, well, at least he knows you're not cheap. If he had thrown ones, you would have been insulted.

He sits on the foot of your bed (funny, he got accustomed to that really quickly) and twitches like someone dropped spiders into his shirt (spiders you cannot be held accountable for on this occasion).

He rubs at his eyes. "Do you have bleach?"

You consider either targeting Jay's dye job or May's refusal to believe you don't bleach your own near-white hair. The latter would make you look bad, and good cynics never laugh at themselves. The former, well, you have a thing for Jay's hair and would actually be disappointed if he changed it. (You'll leave it at that.)

Silence is the best option, since Jay explains of his own free will: "Metis. Josh. No pants. No pants or boxers. Except Josh wears briefs and I did not need to know that and you win the bet."

You place the twenty dollars into your pocket.

"My eyes. My retinas. I think I'm scarred for life."

"I told you, by the end of the month," you say.

It's really hard not to laugh. At him. Not with him. But laughing at Jay to his face would be too cruel after what he had to see, so you sling an arm around him and snicker into his shoulder. He pushes at you and groans.

You check your phone and realize it's been off. You turn it on and wait for it to ring. Metis will probably be calling you as soon as he and Josh are done with the act that just earned you twenty dollars. You're sure of this, because in accordance with your version of Charles' Law, you have a sixth sense for when someone is about to act asinine.

The phone rings.

A distressed voice squawks at you from the other side. You "uh-huh" for a few minutes as May rambles like a drunken chipmunk, cramming in how he just lost his virginity and to a guy and to Josh and god Jay was supposed to come over and he thought he heard a door open but anyway now he's hiding in the bathroom calling you on the phone.

"May," you finally say, and the rambling shuts itself off. "As much as I love listening to you making a fool of yourself, I have to ask: is Josh still there?"

A door creaking. The sound of frantic scrambling. "Josh I was just-" and the call ends. You're always right.

Have you ever mentioned you really hate the scene kids? Blue hair boy and a lime fishnets stockings girl and Kristin chat with you while you're waiting for Jay to get out of the art room. Actually, you're just talking with Kristin. The other two are butting in.

Jay's getting back some CDs somebody borrowed. You tell this to Kristin. The girl with lime fishnets likes to pretend you're talking to her. She rambles about how she never buys any music anymore unless it's from indie bands at a concert because, like, "Major labels and all their pop shit sucks. Fucking corporations."

This is where the girl really gets on your nerves, especially since she's wearing a Hot Topic-bought Barbie shirt. You try not to twitch.

You and Kristin try to talk about the next play. Dali's probably going to be short on stage crew again, but Kristin's looking forward to tryouts for Cinderella's evil stepmother.

"Evil Stepmothers! That's, like, my favorite band. They're not sellouts or anything. And they have the best myspace ever." You really hate fishnets girl. Loathe, more like it.

"We tried to get a group up for the concert Saturday, but everyone was so freaking buusssyy." If blue hair boy does not stop whining, you might commit murder. You're already thinking there might be piano wire in your basement.

It's about that time Jay comes out of the art room. The door behind him slams shut. The school usually seems like its about to fall apart, much like your patience.

Jay's got his arm slung over the shoulder of that one guy who got suspended for painting a remake of _The Birth of Venus_ starring the school principal. Jay smiles and waves to blue hair boy and lime fishnets and Kristin. He takes his arm from art boy and moves over to you.

"Sorry about the wait."

You shrug, and say goodbye to Kristin.

"Hey, wait, you guys want to go to the Mass Tray Suicide show this weekend?" asks blue hair boy.

"Next time," says Jay. Smartly, he's got an arm around your shoulder, leading you to the parking lot.

You reach his car and cross your arms.

"So, we meet Metis in what, another hour?" he says. He knows you narrowly escaped chewing blue hair and fishnets out. (You don't bruise egos; you mutilate them.) "Thank you for not killing Dave and Sierra."

"I thought I'd use your car to move the bodies."

"You've seen everything piled in my trunk. We'd never be able to fit them in there."

"We? And here I thought you liked them."

Jay tightens his hold on your shoulder. The things you put up with for him.

You're touchy in personality, but not really that physical.

Knees touching when you're sitting, or curling your hand against the back of his neck, or finding some way to slip your hand into his pants in a public place for your own entertainment at his discomfort. That's your kind of physical. The kind you initiate.

The other day in the movies? You have successfully ensured Jay will never have innocent thoughts seeing you reach for popcorn again.

Jay, on the other hand, isn't really physical. In public. Which is probably the reason no one knows you're dating. See, the thing is, you're not even trying to hide it anymore. You thought that maybe, especially since you and Jay have been going out not just weeks, but months, that maybe your best friend might have noticed something.

Then again, May and his behemoth of a boyfriend had about five wits between them, but now that they hang all over each other, it's gone down to one. It took them long enough to set their own disgustingly sweet infatuations straight, and only with your, ahem, help. So yeah, you might expect too much from Metis. He and Josh are actively trying to hide their own relationship, which is sort of like two hormone-boggled penguins trying to hide in a flock of flamingos. (Jay's words, not yours.)

Conspicuous does not begin to cover it. You started a new bet on how long it will be before one of the other football players realizes their teammate has switched teams.

If someone knows or someone does not know that you and Jay are dating (whatever term you want to use), it doesn't change your relationship. Really. Because you're not any different in public than you are alone. Except for the physical contact.

You and Jay are mirrors. You love to tease him if other people are around. But when you're alone, it's Jay who is the first to grab and touch and strip and say things that you don't really mind but you don't say back and you don't think too hard about. Everything he doesn't do in front of other people. This bothers you.

It bothers you because it doesn't bother you. It bothers you because it's too damn easy.

You can explain all the things that your relationship is not. It is not an overwhelming whirlwind of passionate puppy love, or a dirty little secret you will take to your grave, or even a downward spiral into apathy. It's the last one you were thinking about. You were wondering how long it would take before you or he got bored and just... quit. Walk away, not think about, not remember it.

You and Jay are here, lying in his bed, with no intent of running out. You or he could get up, get a towel, maybe get clothes on. That would require moving, which you're really not inclined to do at the moment. Jay moves a little, shifts so that you're halfway facing each other.

It shouldn't be this easy to lie here, breathing each other's breath. It unsettles you. Just a little. Not that anyone can unsettle you. No, not at all.

Jay's half-shut eyes look more green than blue in this light. You don't bother curbing the impulse to brush his hair off his face and leave your hand entwined there.

"You know," Jay says, "I'm really glad you're not a girl."

"The hell?" you snort. Your eyes narrow. "You better know I'm not."

"Seriously," Jay says. "Every girl I've ever known wants me to, at some point, read their minds. I think they can read ours. Which is pretty scary, actually."

"Is there a point to this conversation, or am I just that good that I reduced you to mindless babble?"

"I'd really hate trying to read your mind. I'd have no effing idea what you're thinking."

"If you ask me what I'm thinking, I swear to God I'll leave right now."

Jay hooks his leg across yours. "Aw, but you're warm." He drapes an arm over your waist for emphasis. You're not actually sure what he's emphasizing, except maybe the fact that where you are, it's pretty damn comfortable.

"Charles, is Metis your best friend?"

Jay asks this while slumped over your kitchen table. He flicks a paper football and cheers when it hit's the gnome cookie jar on the high shelf.

"Well, yeah," you answer. You flashback to Jay's conversation about not being a girl. It seems just a little more intelligent at this moment. You're pretty sure Jay won't get weepy about why he's not labeled as your best friend. (You look over your shoulder, just in case your mom is ready to give you a lecture on how not to be condescending to women.)

"Are you sure?" he asks.

"Is this a trick question? Did your sister leave out her Cosmo or something?"

Jay slams down a hand. "Hey, I only read that one issue on dye tips and-don't change the subject! Seriously, May is supposed to know you pretty well. Right?"

"I suppose."

"He and Josh were talking about whether they needed to set you up with someone. May suggested me. Josh said you hate me. And they told me to set you up with one of my friends. Dave was mentioned."

You sit in the chair across from Jay and stare. No blinking. Just staring, until you and he are having a staring contest. You and Jay burst into laughter at the same time. Eventually, you help him up after he falls to the floor.

May has an irrevocably damaged brain. It must be so, or he would not call you at the unholy hour of six in the morning to scream like a child because "There's a snow day, Charles! Have you looked outside? Everything's just covered."

Of course everything is covered, moron; that's why there's a snow day. Saying this would require too much energy, so you snap you're phone shut and wonder how long it will take for May to realize he's talking to himself.

A few hours of sleep later, you brave the half-foot of white to walk to May's door. Jay's beside you, still grumbling about how the weather and his car don't mix. But you cut your eyes at him because you know he'll smile almost foolishly. Maybe you do have a hidden love for foolish things.

Josh is here-of course. He doesn't trust you. You, however, trust him. Now that you didn't expect, but you'll admit that he's not the worst possible choice of a thick-headed jock May could have chosen. You have admitted this to Jay, once, and now lie if he ever brings it up.

Josh is Josh, though, an easy and favorite target, so you still edge a little too close to May for his comfort and your own private chuckles. Honestly, how could you taking a drink from May's cup of hot chocolate ever be misconstrued as affectionate? Jay rolls his eyes and runs a foot against your leg under the table.

Despite Metis's best efforts, you never played in the snow with him. No freezing snow forts and snowball fights and colds for you. See, you're fairly intelligent. Unlike May. Unlike Josh. Both confined to their houses for at least the entire weekend. Fools do catch colds, apparently.

Jay stifles a sneeze. "Hey, I was smart enough to quit when I realized I couldn't feel my fingers. They were in it for another half an hour."

You answer, "I know. I was there. Inside the house. Unlike you." Jay tosses the tissue box at your head.

He's not as sick as the other two, but he's sick enough that he can't go out today. You refuse to get within three feet of him, which he considers cruel and unusual punishment. You don't stay there very long, but it's not like he really expected you to. And it's okay.

You answer your cell at three in the morning. Jay slept most of the day after you left, so now he's awake. Wanting to talk. You consider snapping your phone shut.

"Drop the call and I wake up your entire neighborhood. Don't think I won't blare the horn."

You wonder how that might be achieved. Looking out your window, you see a familiar car, exhaust billowing from the tailpipe and melting some of the snow. Looks like Jay got over that cold pretty quick. It's not the most original blackmail ever, but it's endearing that he'd try.

"Two minutes," you tell him. You shut your phone on his laughter.

OK Go blares from his speakers. Jay sings along to "Bye Bye Baby" and plants a kiss on your jaw line.

It's really quite stupid, out at three in the morning because Jay's sleeping schedule is messed up. It's a stupid you don't mind too much. You grab cups of coffee from a gas station, handing over your money to a cashier named Sunshine who has a labret and fake orange nails that almost impale your hands. All you end up doing is watching the snow keep falling while Jay drives because nothing else is going on. The night's not a bad one.

"You know, we don't know that much about each other."

Jay says this as his sister runs out of the house screaming something about a mall and a python. You and he are on his couch, leaning back to back, discovering the evils of Reconstruction-and of Reconstruction essays. You stretch out your legs and layer your notes.

"I mean, we know each other," Jay continues, shifting against your back, "but not details. Like, your worst memory of kindergarten. Or you know, what would you want to take with you on a deserted island. I'm pretty sure I don't even know your favorite color."

"The class hamster dying, the novels on my top bookshelf, and green. Anything else? I don't think it really matters. Are you sure you are not reading your sister's magazines?"

"I don't! And no, it's not really important. I was just thinking about it."

He hands you his essay so you can mark out every little mistake. Grammar Nazi.

"You have a misplaced modifier here."

"I think I sort of love you," Jay says.

"And here." You point with your pen. "You wrote that Congress failed to impeach Johnson. They impeached him. They just didn't convict him."

"Charles, I just said I love you." Jay crosses his arms, half-waves one hand. He wants you to speak, wants an answer. He fidgets.

You lean in so close your eyes go out of focus. The muscle in his thigh shudders under your hand. "I love you, too," you finally say, and draw back as he leans forward, "but it doesn't change the fact that your grammar is horrible. You're the reason English classes never need to stop having spelling tests." Your pen is marking up his paper again.

Jay gapes for a moment before shoving his history paper out of your hands and sprawling on top of you. No one's as good as you, really, but Jay does kiss better than a whelk.

It's one week later when you're in your room with Jay without Jay's clothes. Your phone is turned off. You turn it on because you have a feeling you're about to get a phone call. You're always right.

"Charles what the hell we were supposed to study calculus what were you and Jay and I knew he couldn't fit underwear under those leather pants and I need Josh to hurry and find the bleach and why the hell didn't you tell me anything how long have you-"

You snap your phone shut. (Honestly, you will not admit that you literally forgot May was supposed to come over. You'll just pretend it was some form of payback for Jay.)

"Well, that was one way to tell him," Jay says.

Jay makes you smile.


End file.
